


Mummer

by zillah1199



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah1199/pseuds/zillah1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I saw this prompt on kmeme and was captivated:<br/>"I have this crazy idea, which is sort of like a song-inspired-fic but stretched out to an entire album. Take an album, any album that you can't stop listening to, and write about a pairing that you're obsessed with, in a series of drabbles or shorts or mini-fills that matches up to the title/lyrics/feeling of a song, but it's a bit of a commitment because it's an entire album.<br/>This could be ANYTHING. Angsty, fluffy, sexy. It is up to A!A."</p><p>I'm using my favourite album by my favourite band. Mummer by XTC. The original 1983 release.<br/>updated 4/10 to include links to lyrics and music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beating of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bookends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/377488) by [foxghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxghost/pseuds/foxghost). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/beating-of-hearts-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dXQBVvBtO8

Ragged heartbeat. Erratic. Rhythmless. Blood pounding, cold sweat. And pain, so much pain. Pain is weakness. Weakness must be overcome. Still the harsh breathing. Each breath a tiny knife, stabbing at his chest. 

Let it go. Calm. Meditate. Focus. Pain is transient. Pain fades. Pay it no mind. Reach past the pain into stillness. Ignore the heartbeat, pounding in your ears, in every stab of pain.

Even the best warriors get wounded. Most injuries heal themselves. Some don't. Some can't. Some take too long, and Fenris cannot bear being bedridden. Some are untenable left without attention. Sometimes potions are not enough. Sometimes magic is required. No matter how much he dislikes it. 

“I'll need to heal this, Fenris. Don't glower at me. A broken collarbone won't fix itself. Lean back.” He does, grudgingly. Hands settle just under his throat. He twitches. “Don't act like that. Has my magic ever hurt you?” A sharp push against his clavicle. A sickening pop, a sudden snap and lightning stab of pain. Flinching.

“That hurt.” he growls, taking childish pleasure in being contrary.

“ _That_ wasn't magic. That was just resetting the bone. Had to be done before I could do this.” The healing magic starts flowing. “And it would've hurt a lot more if someone else had done it.”

“He's right, you know.” Isabela flashing her bright smile. “I've had lots of bones set, and Anders is the best. Those hands are magic.” She winks. “Even when they're not.”

Fenris grumbles. His head is pillowed against the mage's ridiculous coat. Feathers tickle the back of his head. The hands on his shoulders are warm and soothing. Magic caresses his skin. Pain fades. Aches soothe. Breathing becoming easier. The sharp, blinding pain eases to a dull ache, then slowly fades.

Anders' magic is nothing like Tevinter magic. In Tevinter, magic burns, stinks of blood, death and suffering. Healing is brutal. Only weaklings need healing. To be injured is to be a failure. There is no need to coddle the injured. Better that they learn from their mistake. Better that they not require aid. Magic burns. Healing scorches, a cautery to be endured. 

Anders' magic is cool. Sweet. Balm, trickling into his skin. Soothing, it envelops him, soaking into his flesh like rain on a summer evening. Fresh and bright as the first snowmelt of spring. Dew glistening with the morning sun. The chuckling gurgle of a distant stream. Serene as a pool of moonlight. Compelling. Easy to lean back into to it, to relax, to float in it.

Two hearts beating. Out of sync at first, then, slowly meshing, finding harmony. One rough with pain easing into smoothness, the other, solid, firm. Vital. Two hearts, one rhythm, beating like the patter of rain on the thirsty ground. Two hearts, like music; two dancers, one song. Loud enough, soft enough, sure enough. Pure enough; drowning out anger, washing away hatred. 

Wholeness.


	2. Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/wonderland-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-XjEB3dvOg

It was an irony that such a beautiful exterior should be filled with such anger and vitriol. Anders tried not to glare at Fenris. Something had been said about mages. There'd been a 'huff', a noise of contempt, a disgusted breath. A glance full of suspicion. Condemnation. Malice.

He'd have argued once. Defended himself and everyone born, like him, into the gift of magic. But why bother. He couldn't bear it, not tonight. Not tonight when he'd felt so alone, so empty. Alone with Justice, which was sometimes worse than being alone. A spirit, demanding - inhumanly demanding, filling him with a sense of his own impotence, his own ineffectiveness and how long it had been since he'd felt any kind of joy. Another night, just the two of them that are one, a bitter bonding full of recrimination and nagging duty, never fulfilled, impossible to fulfill. 

He'd jumped at the chance to accompany Hawke on one of his insane, death-defying errands. Anything to get out of the clinic, and shut the door on a room that stunk of his own failings. A night of human company, a night when other voices could chase away the shadows of gloom in the back of his mind. Hawke, like a bright dagger of purpose, Isabela incorrigible, brazen. Varric, short, solid and true. Fenris a ghost of silver and moonlight. 

Fenris. Slender, dusky skin and pale hair, Anders' heart always skipped a beat when the elf appeared at his clinic door. Once Anders would have had no qualms about whispering languid suggestions in that elegant, tapered ear. But now, now he was too full of duty and guilt. Too full of Justice. He'd forgotten how to seduce, how to suggest. How long had it been since he'd been warmed by the flesh of a lover? How long since he'd tasted a kiss or drank of desire? Too long with only a cold bed or a broken stool and a half-written manifesto to occupy his nights.

So here he was, halfway across Hightown, his eyes looking anywhere but at the maddeningly beautiful elf. The elf who glowered at him, who spouted hatred at all mages and disgust at one in particular. Of all the faces that haunted Anders dreams, all the voices that could send chills down his spine, why was it Fenris, Fenris the mage-hating ex-slave that drew his eyes, no matter how he willed himself to look elsewhere? He pointedly stared at the cobbles, ignoring Isabela's smirk. He glared at her and refused to look back at the elf. Refused to let himself be captured by that phantom of grace and elegance, an alluring frame for an angry heart.

If only hatred could be healed. If only anger could be eased with potions and poultices. If only a lifetime of suffering and the bitterness it engendered were a thing that could be lanced, purged like a festering wound, drained of bile and rot and made clean and well again. What good was it to be a healer, a gifted, talented healer when you could not heal the pains of the soul, the hurts that led the wounded to hurt the ones who love them.

Weariness kept them all quiet, pensive on the walk back home. The quiet made it easy to relax. To forget how much anger can sting, how much spite can wound. Then someone had spoken, mentioned the blood-mages they'd had to kill (why must there be so many? Didn't they understand what they were doing to themselves? To all mages?) and that disgusted 'whuff' had curdled Anders' heart in his chest. It hurt to hear that scorn, to see that sidelong glance of viridian contempt. What have I ever done to you? he thought. I heal your flesh when I can, I help you, I dream of you at night and you look at me as though I were less than dirt. 

Anders sighed and shook his head. Once it would have been a challenge. Now...now he's out of his league. Too old, too tired, too spirit-ridden. A thing of tatters and rags, not fit for a ghost of silver and steel. Once, perhaps, but now only a dream, a thing to want but not to have, as blinded by Justice as a certain elf was blinded by hate.


	3. Love on A Farmboy's Wages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/love-on-a-farmboys-wages-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slGwMmG_GVg
> 
> my favourite song off this album

The sun was setting over the Wandering Hills. Euric straightened his collar and fussed, ineffectually, with his hair. No matter how many times he tied it back, it still insisted on escaping the leather thong and wisping into his face. He could see the lanterns being lit on the village green. No more time for fretting. He was getting married.

Gisa was waiting for him, her golden hair bound up with wildflowers and wheat. She was beautiful, her slender form just beginning to show the curve of their unborn child. Euric heard nothing of the words spoken by the Chantry priestess, the blessing a distant buzz in his ears. He was aware only of his bride, his beautiful Gisa, his betrothed since they were children, and now, at last, his wife. He drank in the warm amber of her eyes, richer by far than the sliver of gold he placed on her finger, sweeter than the daisies in her hair. The kiss she placed on his lips stole his breath and set his heart to hammering. Truly, no man cold be happier.

The wedding feast was a modest affair, typical in the Anderfels, roasted goat, placki and onions, breads, cheeses and plenty of rich dark ale. There was laughter and dancing, the bride and groom ate together from a single wooden trencher, drank together from a large hammered metal cup. The village rejoiced in their joining and the couple rejoiced in each other. 

The wedding bed had been blessed, a flask of sweet wine set on the table beside it, fresh-picked herbs and flowers hung from the headboard. Gisa had been carried there by the women of the village, undressed to only a fine linen shift, her hair brushed out and shining like golden floss surrounding her. Euric stumbled into the room, pushed through the door by the men-folk, half drunk and stripped down to his boots and breeches. Frozen in place by the sight of her, a vision in shades of cream and honey and gold, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He'd been fourteen when they'd been betrothed, and she had been just ten, a happy child with hair like the sun and eyes like autumn leaves. Sixteen when he'd first bedded her, and each time had been sweeter than the last. Now she was his wife, and their union was the greatest blessing of all.

Her scent filled his nose, fresh as morning grass, a hint of apples and cream. Her hair was silk, a river of silk covering them both. He held her close, both of them sweat-damp from their joining, the curve of her belly warm against him. He pillowed her head on his shoulder and rested his hand on her fullness.

“A boy or a girl, do you think?”

“Too soon to tell,” she laughed. “But if it be a boy, I hope he has your red-gold hair.”

“Mmm, and your amber eyes.” He kissed the top of her head. A boy would be nice. A boy to work the farm with him, plow the fields and milk the herd. A boy to grow tall and strong, to carry on his name. Daughters later, but first he hoped for a son. Daughters left you, daughters were passed on; when of an age their hands were given to another man, their name to another family. But a son, a son stayed with you for life. A son kept your name, carried the memory of you long after you'd returned to the Maker's side. A daughter was a gift, given to you for a time, then given to another to be a wife, but a son was your life. A son was part of you forever, and a man lived on in his sons and his sons' sons. That was the way of things in the Anderfels, and that was everything a man could want.  



	4. Great Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/great-fire-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGvAdnOg8IM

Burning. Everything was burning.

The barn was on fire. The flames licked up over the bales of hay, consuming them and reaching greedily for the wooden walls, towards the thatched roof. He had done this. Somehow, he had done this.

He'd been angry, told to do chores when he wanted to go and play. It was such a beautiful day, such a glorious day, the first fine afternoon of spring. He didn't want to muck out winter-rotted hay and goat dung. He wanted to be out on the plains, watching the distant mountains catching passing clouds on their tips. But Da said no, too much work to do, too old now to run and play like a baby. Time to do a man's work.

So off to the barn he'd gone. And Da had found him there, leaning on a rake, daydreaming at the smell of a fresh breeze, laced with budding greens and wildflowers. He'd gotten a hand to the back of the head, sharp and unexpected, worse for having not heard anyone approaching. He'd jumped, and fear and pain made something bunch inside of his head and billow out like...like flames.

He'd done this. He didn't know how, but he'd felt the power uncoil from inside him, lashing out with a wild rush, pouring through him in a strange, terrible ecstasy. And then, with a loud _whooof_ , the barn he'd been standing outside of burst into flames.

He stood there, staring stupidly. How could this thing have happened? What did he do? How did he do it? Dimly, he became aware of shouting, screaming. He shook his head and realized a small crowd had gathered. His father was still standing there, fear mixed with rage on his face. His neighbors, pointing and gawking. His mother, her face white with shock, eyes filling with tears. What had he done? “Bring water!” someone shouted. “Bring water!”

Da grabbed his arm and shook him, yelling something into his face, but he couldn't hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears, the babbling confusion in his brain. His mother was saying something, tugging at Da's shoulder, crying, pleading. It was all too much. He shook himself free of his father's grip and ran. Ran to the house, to his room. He grabbed a little pillow off his bed and dove under it, pushing back beneath the mattress, shoving himself tight against the wall, eyes closed, waiting for the madness to subside.

Sometime later, he heard his father come into the room, yell for him, cursing at him, wanting to know what he'd done. What he was. His mother came later, crying, begging him to come out, to speak to her. He said nothing, only buried his face further into the pillow, crying into the roughspun fabric, too afraid, too ashamed to speak. Eventually he fell asleep, never noticing the bowl of stew his mother had set by the bed, never hearing his father lock the door from the outside.

The Templars came the next day. They didn't bother to try and coax him out from under the bed, they simply picked it up and moved it, grabbed him, half-awake on the floor, chained his wrists and dragged him from the room, from the house, away from everything he had ever known.

They let him keep his pillow, but everything else they took from him. They dragged him to a foreign land, took away his home, his family. They took his dignity, his freedom and his language, forcing him to learn a new one, punishing when he misspoke. They even took his name, calling him just 'Anders', which wasn't even a name, just a thing that they called him, as though he were a goat or a dog. They hadn't even let him say goodbye to his mother. They'd taken everything from him, leaving him only ashes.


	5. Deliver Us From The Elements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/deliver-us-from-the-elements-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kwE_yUz5tY

“I can set you free.” He held his mother's hands, begging her with his eyes.

Her face remained sad. “Don't do this Leto. Please, it is not worth it.”

“Anything is worth your freedom. Anything. You will never be slaves again – you and Varania. You'll have your own lives, at last. Varania can become an apprentice, if she wishes. I must do this.”

“Not if it kills you.” Her deep green eyes were sad, a sorrow that cut deep into Leto's heart. He ran the pads of his fingers over the lines in her face, deep, weathered lines. Too many to count. She was younger than she looked, a lifetime of slavery stealing her beauty away. The elements had been unkind to her, work and suffering and sadness and the harshness of the Tevinter sun. Soon, too soon she would be old and weak, good for nothing but a blood sacrifice. He would not see that happen, not while he had breath in his body.

He had to make her see. How strong he was, how capable. He could save them both, deliver them from a lifetime of forced servitude. He would fight for her, for them both. Their lives would be their own, his sister's magic would be her own, they'd never need to fear becoming thralls, or sacrfices. He would fight for them and he would win. He was young, and quick. Tall for an elf and stronger than he looked, it had been years since he'd been bested in a fight.

But his mother's eyes were clouded with tears, his sister's wide with fear. “Oh, Leto,” his mother touched his face, her hand dry as parchment, joints swollen from years of abuse. He leaned into her touch, biting down on his impatience. “You are so young, my child. I am old and have so few years left to me. Don't sell your life for mine. Surely there must be another way for the two of you. It matters not so much for me, but you two. No, Leto, no. Do not do this thing. Losing you would be worse than slavery.” 

He pulled her close, murmuring reassurances to her. Why must she insist on treating him like a child. He was a grown man now, grown and ready to take care of his family. He was being given a chance, one miraculous opportunity, and he could not pass it up. To win a boon, the rarest gift a slave could be given, like a blessing from the Black Divine himself. Fight in the Arena, defeat all challengers and free his family. How could he _not_ do this? How could he let such a benediction slip through his fingers?

His eyes flew to Varania, begging her for support. He knew she wanted this as badly as he did. He knew her worst fear, that some magister would abuse her gifts, usurping her powers, draining her for their own benefit.

“Perhaps it is as Leto says, mother. Perhaps the Maker has granted us this.”

The older woman looked scornfully at her children. “Since when has the Maker listened to the prayers of the People? More likely this is the Dread Wolf, leading you astray.”

Leto didn't believe in the Old Gods. They were stories, told to his parents by their parents. They meant nothing here in the Imperium. He wasn't entirely sure he believed in the Maker. But he believed in himself and in his family. He would do anything to protect them, anything to save them. He could do this. He would do this. 

“I will save you. Both of you. I will show you. You'll be free, don't you understand? You will have a future, your own future. I can give you this. This one thing, I can do for you, I can give it to you. It's all I have and it's everything. Don't you see? I will give you everything.”


	6. Human Alchemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/human-alchemy-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIvBapIAn64

“This will be my greatest triumph. My name will be ring through the ages. All will tremble before me.”

He'd said that the last time. And the time before that. Three humans and two elves, so far, killed trying to fulfill Danarius' deranged alchemic experiment. Bonding lyrium to flesh. Pure poison inset into living tissue. Who but a madman could expect such a thing to work? Who but a lunatic would try?

Danarius was mad. No question. Though if madness were a crime, half the magisters in the Imperium would be locked up. At least half. Blood magic, inbreeding, the general atmosphere of depravity, the political and social turbulence. Only the insane could survive it. Only the insane were mad enough to try. But Danarius, Danarius was madness incarnate. Danarius walked paths that even the most diabolical magister would shun, calling on magics so terrible, so loathsome, that even the most debauched would consider them obscene.

Yet, here they were, five healers dead, burnt dry of power, sucked clean of life force. And the damned elf was still alive. Screaming, raving, bleeding from head to foot, every line of cuts, every fusion of liquid metal bringing forth another bout of agony, draining another healer. Blood was everywhere, pouring from the elf, from the sacrifices, pooling on every surface, filling the room with its iron stink. Sweat, rancid as vinegar, blood, vomit on the floor, lyrium giving the room a terrible unearthly glow. And there stands Danarius, exulting over the scene like a beneficent god. The magister was gloating, face alight with frenzied glee, blood and gore soaking his robes. He clutched, white-fingered, at his knife, poised to sacrifice as many trembling slaves as needed to this macabre ritual.

The elf, that poor, stupid elf, had fought for this, battled like a beserker, shown a strength of will that no one had expected. But it was nothing compared to the will required to survive this experimental carnage. Another healer down, and the remainder of us trembling in a corner, faint and terrified, praying to every diety we can think of that our turns will not come. Pale and weak, no tears left to cry, no bile left to disgorge. We whimpered while the elf screamed and the tang of lyrium permeated our very breath.

If there was a such thing as Hell, then it was made real in this room, this abbatoir where all reality seemed turned inside out, where each moment was an eternity of suffering fueled by savagery beyond that of any demon or corrupt spirit. The very meaning of pain being redefined in the frenzy of torment. Cruelty beyond compare. Where a living creature was being transmuted into a thing of magic and metal, a living lyrium well. An impossibility crafted out of the foulest magic known to man, conceived of the darkest mania. Death and poison given form, a chimera made real.

Somehow, the elf survives. He is become an uncanny thing. Unnatural. Poison embedded into his flesh combined with profligate use of magic has burnt his hair white. Hours of screaming have shattered his mellow tenor, roughening it to shivering baritone. His skin is alight with magic, literally, flickering palest blue under the thick, clotted scabs that crust over the newly incised lines. He lives, in a room abundant with death, an ecstasy of slaughter giving birth to something that should not be able to exist, the most terrifying of Danarius' creations.

The elf survives. Mind wiped clean of his past, he is like a child born anew. Born to kill at his master's command. He is all that Danarius had hoped and so much more. He is called Fenris, the little wolf. Like Fen'Harel, he is a creature of nightmares, made to bring fear and dread to the enemies of Danarius. But in his madness, Danarius has forgotten – or perhaps never knew – that Fen'Harel is also the trickster. The one who betrays.


	7. Ladybird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/ladybird-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gikoBV25fXc  
> another really pretty song

Eyes like honey. Like darkened gold. Like amber. Eyes that catch a look, imprison it in amber, held fast, unable to look away. Green eyes, caught in that burnished gaze. How long had Fenris been looking into those eyes and trying not to look into those eyes?

Lying on the grass halfway up Sundemount, watching the mage gathering herbs and flowers, a healer's bounty, bundling them up to take back to the cold and damp of his clinic. With the sun painting his hair in colors of copper and bronze, kissing his skin with glowing warmth. Coat shed, sleeves rolled back, his face bright and untroubled. Fenris watches him through the shade of his fringe, eyes never leaving him. He dreams of pulling the healer down onto him, rolling naked in the meadow together, taking him in the green and the flowers, amongst the ladybirds and the glittering dragonflies . 

Fenris says nothing of his thoughts. It has been suggested to him that Anders would not spurn his advances, but he is uncertain as to whether or not he should believe such a thing. He is observant, as only an ex-slave can be, as one who has been a slave must be, but he is unschooled as to the language of desire, a stranger to its nuances. How does one tell if one is desired? How does one communicate desire to another? It is a strange venture, a thing that he is not comfortable with. 

Once he'd been angry. Full of bitterness and hate. The sight of a mage, even this one had been poison, a thorn in his eye. Contempt as cold and sour as a winter storm. But somehow, this mage, this one mage, had melted his scorn. Slowly, it had happened so slowly, but winter had thawed and spring had come and Fenris had known how to feel warm again. Was it because Isabela had teased that she'd seen the mage looking at him? Looking, the sort of look best delivered across the intimacy of a pillow, a look that spoke of need and want. Was it from seeing the selflessness of a man who drove himself half into the grave to help people he barely knew? Was it his healing, always healing, even Fenris, even when he was cursed, spat upon and pushed away by an elf who had never known kindness, especially from a mage? 

Was it all of these or none that had made this man Anders to him, not 'mage', not 'demon', not 'abomination'. Anders. Anders of the red-gold hair, the honey-gold eyes, Anders that fills him with longing, confusion. Anders that has burned himself into Fenris' mind, into his heart.

Anders knows nothing of these thoughts, caught up as he is in the search for blossoms and leaves that can help the injured and soothe the ill. He ignores the elf, who is feigning sleep, pays no mind to his other companions, Varric humming as he cleans Bianca, Hawke and Aveline chatting amiably. The healer doesn't know that fresh air and calm have taken years from his face, relaxed the perpetual frown, warmed the sorrow that lurks in his eyes, catching at the subtle downturn of his lips. Fenris notices. He notices that Anders is too pale, too lost-looking. That he belongs under the sun, with flowers at his feet and light in his hair. Fenris wishes he could give that to Anders.

Fenris says nothing, keeps his dreams to himself, longing to hold Anders' face in his hands and kiss him until all the sadness is gone from him, until he bloomed like a flower in the sun.


	8. In Loving Memory of A Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/in-loving-memory-of-a-name-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTLVRD8S-3s

Fenris never locked his door. Not much point in it, really, with half the windows broken out. Anders let himself in and trudged up the stairs.

The elf was sprawled on the bed, knee bent at an awkward angle, halfway through a bottle of wine. Anders huffed irritably at him.

“You shouldn't have walked on this. You should have let me heal it before you left.” He sat down and eased the damaged leg onto his lap.

“I needed some air.”

Anders assessed the damage. It wasn't good. Wasn't as bad as he'd feared, but it wasn't good. He was surprised the elf had made it all the way back to his mansion from Lowtown. The fight with Danarius had been difficult and Fenris had disappeared before Anders had a chance to check him over. “Your kneecap is displaced. I'm going to have to put you under to fix it.”

“No.”

“Look, this is going to hurt. I mean, really, really hurt. There's no way to avoid that.”

“No.”

Anders ground his teeth. “I know what I'm doing. Stop being so stubborn.” 

The two of them glared uselessly at each other. Finally, Anders grimaced and relented. “Fenris, it'll hurt. I can't...I just...I can't hurt you like that. I can't, not you, not anyone. It's just too much. Please...”

Fenris drew his brows together. “Do what you must to relieve the pain, but do not render me unconscious.” 

It was an acceptable compromise. Fenris let the magic wash over him, cool and soothing. Distantly, he felt the wrench of his kneecap being forced back into place. It hurt, but the pain was an abstract thing, something happening outside the warm envelope of magic he currently inhabited. Time slowed, the world became a fluid thing, distant. He was floating. Drifting. But always aware, always just above the surface of darkness. He would not let it pull him under. He would not drown in it.

After a time became more aware of the world around him. The softness of his bed. The hand of the mage on his forehead. Anders was speaking to him, his voice an anchor. Fenris let the sound lift him up, urging him to the surface; pulling him into focus.

“Leto. Your sister. She said your name was Leto.”

“So she said. I do not remember.” He took a drink from the bottle he was still holding, then passed it to the healer. His mouth twisted in something like a smile. “It means 'forgotten.'”

Anders nearly choked on his drink. He passed the bottle back. “Sometimes it seems like life is nothing but a collection of ironies strung together.” He paused, silent for so long that Fenris wondered if he meant to continue. “My birth name was Aelfleib.” He expression was wry and introspective, not so bitter a smile as the elf's. “It means 'elf-lover.'” 

He looked over at Fenris. Fenris looked back at him. He meant to say something. A joke at the healer's expense, or at his own. Their eyes met and time slowed. Green eyes into amber. Nothing existed outside that gaze. Fenris' world narrowed to 'Anders' and all the meanings he gave to that name. Magic, cool as a mountain stream, trickling, rushing. Clean and clear and fresh. Honey, his hair was honey, his eyes were honey, his voice was honey. His skin, cream flecked with gold, pink where the sun kissed it, pale as milk beyond. 

Fenris felt his heart thudding. There was a drop of wine at the corner of Anders' mouth, clear white wine, a glimmer of crystal. Fenris pulled him down. Tasted the drop. Chased it with his tongue, then dipped into healers' mouth, rich with the taste of honey, of wildflowers and summer sunshine. He was floating. Drifting. Drowning.


	9. Me And The Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.metrolyrics.com/me-the-wind-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4gmic1UVGIY

“What do you do when you stop running?” 

It was a rhetorical question, but if anyone could answer it, Anders would be the one. But the mage had only laughed, declaring himself the least qualified person to answer that question. Perhaps there was no answer. They'd looked for the answer in the bottom of a wine bottle and found nothing there. They'd looked for the answer in each other's arms, in the press of flesh, the joining of hips and mouths. There was an answer there, but perhaps to a different question. Or many questions.

Fenris was free, now, for the first time in his life. It didn't feel like he thought it would, though. It felt hollow. Tasted like ashes. 

He was restless, just as he often felt after a battle. His enemies were gone, fallen, but the needs of risen adrenaline still chattered in the back of his mind. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff and wanting to jump, but with no clear idea what he was jumping towards. He'd never realised just how much power even the memory of Danarius had held over him until the magsiter was dead. He was as free as the very air, but it felt nothing like flying and everything like being storm-tossed and wind-addled. Rudderless, as Isabela would say.

He tossed irritably in his bed, then stilled, remembering the man sleeping beside him. So odd, to share his bed willingly. To wake with the morning sun in his eyes and in his arms. For the touch of another to be a gift rather than a curse. Anders. Who kept him from losing himself in confusion. A sense of direction. A reason to move forwards, rather than simply succumbing to the panic of aimless flight.

“What does it mean to be free?” He'd asked the mage that as well. Anders had thought about that for a while, his brows drawn, chewing the corner of his lip.

“It means you're responsible to yourself. It means you are free to do as you choose. Right or wrong. Free to make your own decisions. And your own mistakes. Free to move forward, wherever that leads.”

Fenris studied the man sleeping next to him, dark lashes fragile as lace against the pale silk of his skin. Scattered hair glinting like gilded copper. Even in sleep, the ghost of a frown wrinkled his forehead. Fenris leaned forwards and stroked the tension out of Anders' face, kissing lightly at the corner of his mouth and the curve of his ear. A sigh and a shift of weight drew them closer together, blonde hair pillowed on a dusky shoulder. 

“Wherever it leads, I hope it means that we'll be together.” Words whispered in Fenris' ear after they'd spent their passion in each other, when they curled close and let darkness and sated need cloak their vulnerabilties with lassitude.

“Never doubt it.” That had been the reply he'd given. With words. With kisses. 

“I remain at your side ,” he whispered to the sleeping form beside him. The first choice of a free man.


	10. Funk Pop A Roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heads up and a big hug to Lady_Inari! Her comment helped me figure out how to end this little interlude. <3
> 
> http://www.metrolyrics.com/funk-pop-a-roll-lyrics-xtc.html
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ngOjVt0X1i4

Anders' face was drawn. “I hate the Deep Roads.”

“This is the last time you will face them. We will face them. Together.” Fenris rubbed the back of his lover's neck.

“You don't have to do this.” Honey eyes meeting green.

Anders did not want to go alone. He feared the dark and the emptiness. He feared the loneliness. But it was his song, his Calling. He had no right to take another with him. He had no right to bring death to someone whose blood was clean, whose mind was free. He was afraid, but he needed to be strong, this one last time. It was time to run again, but this time running to something. Not away. To. Towards. Where the end waited and he would run no more.

“I do. This is my Calling as much as yours.”

“You're not a Warden.” Honey eyes shadowed, he trembled.

Fenris merely raised his palm to Anders. His palm, scored deep with lines of white metal, lines grown raw and ragged with the passage of time and the fight of mortal flesh against an unnatural intrusion. He was not a Warden, but his body was also a death sentence. 

Fenris didn't hear that song. The whispering voices that plagued Anders, growing louder with each passing year. A terrible, discordant singing that itched in the back of his mind, chittering, scrabbling. No melody, just an unholy rhythm that made a mockery of silence and haunted sleep. The mage had lasted longer than expected, but even being possessed of a Fade spirit was only a panacea. Justice held the song at bay as long as he could, even allowing Anders the solace of drunkeness when the voices sang too harshly. But it was time. The music would play, and the audience would dance to it's tune.

Fenris had his own song. A deep, pulsing chorus. Pounding, like an angry heartbeat. Like the waves, slowly eating away at the shore, taking the land with them, back into the primeval depths. The sound of metal curdling flesh, eroding bone. Lyrium, unmaking him, bit by bit. Turning him brittle. Consuming him. His own kind of taint. 

He might live years yet. Certainly longer than his companion. But they would be sour years. Empty years, full of pain and weakness and the hollow sound of his own loneliness. 

He was a free man, free far longer than he'd been a slave. Free to make choices. This was his choice. To follow his lover into the depths, where they would share this last song of blood and bone. They would go together, lending each other the strength and comfort. They would take the Roads together and meet on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard. Really hard. Some chapters wrote themselves, others were torture. Deliver us from the Elements and Me and the Wind were probably the hardest. At the same time it was a wonderful challenge that made me work and think in ways I might not have done otherwise. I really enjoyed it and might try another album prompt in the future. I hope my readers enjoyed it and I hope that I did justice (hah!) to an amazing album. It was great getting to listen to the music again, and really think about it. I can wholeheartedly recommend any XTC album if you are unfamiliar with the band. Skylarking is probably their best, although Mummer and Nonesuch will always be my favourites. Thanks for reading and thanks to foxghost for a wicked cool prompt.


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